X Chronicles
by Green Peridot
Summary: A series of unrelated short stories, the second being: The Color Red. Red is steeped in symbolism. It can be love... and can be blood. This is the final chapter of Scott's life. Character study, R: T
1. Loosen Up, Sparky

This is the first ficlet in my collection of Xmen short stories. They are all unrelated, unless otherwise denoted, and are therefore individually rated. The status of the story will stay marked complete, because each ficlet _is _complete. I just add new installments as they occur. I change the summary of X-Chronicles to preview each newest short story, as well as the rating and genre.

Whew! Done with the complicated explanation. Made my eyes hurt a bit.

Disclaimer: X-men, excerpts from it, and/or the canon characters do not belong to me. Plots, OCs and the like hereafter, however, I _do_ claim. Go ahead, sue me: you can have my paltry savings with my goodwill. They might cover an eighteenth of your lawyer fees. :D

One last thing- I'm relatively new to the fandom; this being my first thing posted. Please don't shoot me. Oh, and sorry about the insanely long A/N, if you bothered to read it! :D

Summary: Post X3. Rain has been pouring down constantly around the three silent gravestones. Grief can be pushed aside, but it cannot be dismissed: Ororo is going to crack sooner or later. And when someone tries to help, is she too proud to give him another chance?

Rating: T (A debatable PG)

Genre(s): Hurt/Drama

Length: Possible twoshot

_Loosen up, Sparky_

_-_

A storm was gathering around Xavier's School for the Gifted.

Dark, swirling clouds, stained amaranth by the setting sun, swelled ominously; and a low, angry roll of thunder made even the ground shudder and recoil. The branches of the many trees around the mansion were tossed violently in all directions, groaning and creaking in protest of nature's harsh treatment. The wind, moaning and shrieking, whistled through the leaves.

A crackly German voice, tinged with the metallic effects of the telephone, was loud in darkness of the office.

"I cannot, mein freund. I am very sorry. Zis is zhe worst time zat jou could have asked."

"Kurt, I don't think you understand how much we need-"

"I am _sorry_," he repeated forcefully, sounding harassed. "Abschied, liebling. I vill come vhen I can, ja? I promise it." The line went dead, and the dial tone's steady drone echoed in the room.

A huge gust of wind, tearing suddenly through the grounds, proved too much for a tall pine tree. With an earsplitting crack, it fell- taking the telephone lines with it. The tone cut off, and the sound of the storm was all that filled the office.

Ororo Munroe sat in the large chair behind the Professor's desk, her elbows resting on the hard surface, and her coffee colored hands steepled on either side of her bowed head.

She looked up then, staring forward with unseeing, fog-covered eyes.

-

_The Professor chuckled. "Storm, I haven't thought of you as one of my students for a long time. In fact," he said, his tone becoming more serious as he stopped and turned his wheelchair to face her, "I was hoping that you would take my place when I'm gone."_

_-_

Someone was shaking her. Someone strong, and apparently, insistent. "Storm!"

Her eyes focused, and the clouds faded from them. She shook her head slightly, in an effort to clear it. "Logan," she muttered. His eyes dark, and filled with some indefinable expression, he looked down at her. His hands were still on her arms.

Storm looked away, her face as imperturbable as ever. "What're y'doin' here, Logan?"

"Checkin' on you," he replied.

A faint sneer was on her face as she stiffly disengaged herself from his grip, one that was not missed by his sharp eyes before she turned away. She crossed her arms in front of her, looking out the window.

"Heck of a storm out there," he remarked idly, drawing out a cigar and a match to light it.

She opened the huge French doors leading out onto the balcony, and a ready gust of wind whooshed into the room right after he lit his match. The flame died.

"Seems so," she agreed.

Logan considered Storm's back, the sharp smell of smoke briefly filling his hyper-sensitive nose, and abandoned both the match and his cigar. He moved beside her, observing her with a sidelong glance. "If Circus boy skipped out, it's not the end of the world," he said quietly. "Me and the furball're enough for now, 'Ro."

"It's not that simple, Logan. Don't pretend to know."

"Then tell me."

She considered him briefly, a condescending smile on her mouth. It was amazing, reflected Logan, how she could be so warm at one time and then so harshly aloof and forbidding the next.

Over the past three weeks, Logan had been watching her. Since Alcatraz, nearly six months ago now, she had been strained. It was there, just below the calm smooth tones of her voice when she reassured worried parents; and it was there, just barely palpable, in the click of her heels as she strode down the halls of the mansion. He grinned faintly in amusement. The woman walked like the devil himself was out, personally, to get her, and she was going to beat his head into the ground.

Logan had seen Ororo in a corridor a few weeks ago, leaning slightly against the wall and holding her head. Her right hand, down by her side, was trembling so faintly that only Logan would have been able to tell from looking. He knew the signs well- she was going to buckle under the pressure, and soon. He'd thought, then, that it would be within the next few days. But he'd been wrong- Ororo was made of sterner stuff.

He'd seen her, not even an hour after that, embracing Marie in a hug. They'd talked about the Cure for two hours, touchy feely feminine stuff that he hadn't listened to much. But it'd helped Marie; and he looked at Storm with new eyes after it. Logan had been sure that she would have condemned Marie after the girl took the Cure- he remembered Storm's reaction to Marie that day, so long ago, when the Cure had just been announced. In fact, he was _certain_ that she disagreed with Marie.

It was remarkable. He smelled her pent up grief, could almost _see _the waves of tension radiating off of her, and yet she did not wallow in her misery or lash out at any convenient scapegoats. He was coming to the rapid conclusion that Storm had always been the strongest member of the team. Cyke had fallen apart after Jean died (the first time), and Logan hadn't been much better. And then yet again, right after Alcatraz, he hadn't been able to take it. He'd taken off back to Alkali.

Logan had stayed there for months, fighting mindlessly in the cages to pay for his motel bill. He didn't need to fight as much as he did, as the motel he stayed at was little better than a junkyard, but the fighting was healing: it was mindless. He'd needed mindless.

For free time, he'd slept, ate, and got as drunk as his healing factor would allow. And then finally, he went back to the spot where he and Storm had found Jean. That smell had been all over the place… that dark, heady smell that had been right underneath the thin porcelain layer of Jean's skin, intriguing him from the beginning. It was in such stark contrast to her luminous eyes and her ready smile, and the femininity that wafted off of her… Her beauty would have caught his attention. He knew that. But he would have grown bored just her beauty before long.

That smell, though… the whiff of danger and tempestuous passion that he scented lurking just below her alluring breakability, kept him coming back. He wanted to know what it _tasted _like.

And, the fact that she was Scott's would add an extra sweetness.

But at Alkali, he realized why Jean'd had such power over him. Because of that scent- because of the Phoenix. Because he'd known, dimly, that they were the same. Jean was afraid of the killer in her that was growing stronger every day; and Logan was afraid of what he could do with his claws and his temper- and what he might have done in the past.

After Alkali, Logan returned to the mansion. He'd known that Storm would need his help, and he'd been gone long enough already. He owed the Professor that much; and to tell the truth, the thought of Storm left with only the furball to help her with all the extensive aspects of the school had been nagging at him.

It'd been nagging him with good reason. As he'd predicted, Ororo was pushing herself to the limit with silent determination, and not allowing herself an inch of latitude. A wave of irritation and impatience came over him. If she would just let go sometimes, instead of keeping an iron hard grip on her emotions all the time, she would be better off. A few storms now and then wouldn't kill the students. But, if she came to the breaking point, the resulting hurricane might.

A slight, dour smile accompanied that sentiment. "You should loosen up, sparky," he said aloud.

There was a tense pause. Ororo's entire posture had stilled, and she was stiff with anger. Perhaps at the nickname? he reflected. "I don't know what you're talking about, Logan, but you should stop," she said brusquely, eyes fixed on the skies.

The acerbic note in her voice gave him pause. It'd been raining for the past two days, and he'd been keeping an eye on her for exactly what was now happening; but not once in all the hard weeks had he heard such hostility from her. He could not dismiss it as a reaction from her grief, or as a result from the strain on her; he knew her too well for that. There was only one explanation left. "What'd I do to you, darlin'?" he asked.

Lightning flashed across the sky. Ororo's eyes were fogged over, her lip curling; and a crack of thunder directly overhead made the Mansion shudder beneath their feet.

-

"_Where're you going?" she asked, her hands on her hips, and her face carefully calm as she watched him quickly stuffing clothes into his bag. _

"_Where do you think?" he replied, half ignoring her._

_At that, the anger sprang up as quickly as it always did with Logan. A hint of it was audible in her voice, at least to him. "She's gone, Logan," said Storm sharply. "She's not comin' back."_

"_You don't know that," he retorted._

_It was getting worse. The fury was welling up in her throat, and with it, something far more important to conceal from his discerning ears. "She killed the Professor," Storm said bluntly. _

_She'd crossed a line, and it forced Logan to stop and look at her. "It wasn't Jean," he said, surprisingly calmly. He was trying to convince himself as well as her- the tiny waver in his voice proof of his hope, not his conviction. "The Jean I know is still in there."_

_Ororo blocked his path with her body, moving with him as he tried to go around her. "Why can't you face the truth, huh?" she asked as evenly as she could. If he chose Jean now, she would never be able to forgive him for it. She'd already lost Scott, and the Professor; and to Storm, Jean was already gone. If Logan left, she would be alone. Hoping for _some _sort of reaction, she pressed further, "Why can't you just let her go?"_

_He reacted. He seized her roughly by the shoulders, lifting her up easily and shoving her against the door. Her heart hammered in her ribs, but Storm's eyes met Logan's desperate black ones squarely, fearlessly. "Because!" he said furiously. The anguish in his voice ripped at her heart. "Because…"_

"_Because y'love her," she finished. Had she been Mystique, her eyes would have flickered acid green._

_Breathing heavily, he let her go and turned away. _

_Ororo knew the battle and the war were both lost. It didn't matter anymore, she knew, but she pressed on anyways. "She's made her choice," she said. "Now its time we make ours. So if you're with us, then be _with _us."_

_Then she turned on her heel, and left. _

_-_

To Storm, he _had_ made his choice that day- and underscored it when he left yet again after Alcatraz.

Logan's nostrils flared, smelling the air. Storm's hair was lifting with all the electricity in the air, and there was too much lightning, too close.

"Storm..."

No response.

"_Storm._"

Still she ignored him, the rainstorm spiking. A lightning bolt struck the earth a scant meter from the mansion, far too close to them for comfort. Logan grabbed her. Her eyes were pure white, and there was a small smile on her mouth. Another bolt struck, and a flowerpot behind him exploded. Fear gripped his heart- not for himself, but for her. Being hit would hurt like heck, no doubt, but he would shrug it off. But if her aim was off... _she_ was not so indestructible. "Storm!" He shook her once again, harshly gripping her shoulders.

Her eyes cleared and focused, and she realized what she'd been about to do. "Oh my God," she said, mortified. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-" She broke off, confused. Because on some level, she _had _meant to. Her lips compressed tightly, she inhaled, and shrugged it off. "I've just had too much going on right now. I'm not thinkin' straight."

"Stress," he drawled, derisive. "That what ye told the Professor last time you tried to kill someone?"

"Lay off, Logan," she snapped, pushing away. "It's not like you would've died." She sounded sorry about that particular fact. He caught her by the arm. "'Ro," he said quietly, his gaze intense.

A sob rose in her chest at the uncharacteristic softness in his tone. Tears welled up behind her eyes, and defiantly she ripped out of his grasp, heading as calmly as she could for the door. "Just leave me alone, Logan!"

Logan watched her leave, his gaze falling to her hips. He finally was able to light his cigar, and drew in a piqued lungful.

She nearly fried him, and _she _was the one who was mad.

Women.

Mentally, he consigned all females to the devil- in far less polite terms.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Logan was lying, awake, on his bed. He knew better than to go to sleep. The tempest outside had lessened a little after Storm left the office, and she limited it to low rolls of thunder and heavy rain.

But once she was asleep, he knew things would get dirty.

Logan kept a hooded eye on his window, idly smoking his cigar. Looking critically outside, he figured she'd just dropped off. There was a dark line of clouds advancing, fast, on the Mansion.

She could zot him if she had to, but the woman was going to talk to him.

Both Logan and Storm are hard characters for me to capture, and especially Logan seemed OOC. Ick- sorry.

Well, I hope I didn't butcher it. Please review and tell me- flames welcome also- and if you all liked it I will continue.


	2. A Final Battle

Storm was on the balcony, sitting on the steps and hugging her knees. The sun was shining overbright, glaring down at her with hot, accusing rays.

She took in a lungful of air, trying to force her breathing back to normal. She wiped a tear away from her cheek almost as if it were dirty, and closed her eyes. Her mouth trembled, and another crystal drop slipped out rebelliously from under her long lashes. _Just stop it, Ororo, _she told herself. _Stop it! _

This time, though, it didn't work. She felt like the little savage waif back in the hills of Africa, sick and helpless with both grief and confusion.

She _hated _that feeling.

Storm lifted her head skyward, calling on a stiff northern wind to revivify her and clear her mind. Nothing happened. She tried again, harder; yanking on it with all of her power. But the thick air clung stagnant and sticky around her, and no wind whisked away her depression. A sob rose from her throat.

"Storm," said an even, cultured voice.

Her head jerked towards him. "Professor?" she whispered, not believing what she saw.

There he was, sitting as naturally in his wheelchair as he always did; quietly confident and sure. A rush of sweet relief coursed through her. "Professor," she said, with a weak smile. "It's- it's good to see you again."

His small, ever present smile did not leave his face; but his eyes were cool. Her expression faltered. The Professor's voice was as calm as ever in quality, but after, Storm felt as though the air had been stomped out of her.

"I wish, Ororo, that I could say the same to you," he said, and turning, wheeled away.

Storm scrambled desperately to her feet. "No, wait, Professor!" she cried. "_Please_! Let me explain-"

He stopped abruptly. "Explain, Ororo?" he asked contemptuously. "I trusted you with them, every one of my students. I entrusted the school to you, Ororo, and it's falling apart!" He was shouting- shouting at her.

Her heart felt sick. She'd failed the man she'd come to rely on and love deeply, who had been her mentor and very nearly a father to her. Ororo sank to her knees, tears blurring her vision. "Please," she begged. "Scott was supposed to do it, I never was meant for the responsibility-"

"Excuses, Storm," sneered Scott, standing with his arms crossed right in front of her. The Professor was nowhere to be seen. "That's all you ever had when I trained you. That's all you'll ever have."

She was slipping. The world was darkening, and she was sliding down a familiar slope. The one she had nearly fallen from earlier that day; and one she'd plummeted off almost fifteen years ago- killing her entire tribe, and part of herself.

"No- Scott, I've _tried_!" she said fiercely, clawing at the hill; but it was as if it was made of glass.

She was picking up speed. She knew the edge was close, even though it was pitch black. She screamed, but not a sound came out of her throat- as if she was asleep, unable to utter a sound.

"Even Logan would've done better," came Scott's derisive voice.

_Logan_. She heard him, somewhere, calling for her again.

Jean appeared suddenly right in front of her, blazing brilliantly orange in the former darkness. Her long scarlet hair lifted, and her eyes were huge, black lanterns lit with fury. Veins sprouted on her face, dark purple; and a terrible smile grew on her mouth. "Logan is mine," she hissed, "and he always will be."

Deadly calm filled Storm, so different from the turmoil within her only seconds before, as she locked gazes with the Phoenix. Just six inches separated their faces, the woman and her darkly dangerous smirk taunting her; and yet Storm did not feel a trace of fear. In fact, she felt something else: liberation.

"Screw you," she said softly.

Phoenix's eyes widened, and she snarled. Her hands lifted above her head, and then, abruptly, she dropped them. And Ororo was crushed by the sudden weight of the earth surrounding her on all sides.

This time, her scream of pure terror ripped from her chest loud and clear.

A harsh stinging sensation struck her cheek, and then another. Still lost in the nightmare, Ororo clutched convulsively at Logan as she gasped for air.

His grip tightened around her as she clung to him like he was her only lifeline, willing her to feel the safety in his arms. He stoked her ivory hair, cursing his inability to calm the sobs that wracked her body. "Shh, darlin'," he said softly. "It's just a nightmare."

She stiffened suddenly as she realized who was holding her, and seconds later pushed savagely away from him. "Get outta my room, Logan."

Though she was halfway turned away from him, he could still see that she was trembling. "Talk to me, 'Ro," he asked quietly.

"Get out of my room!" she shouted. "Who asked you here, huh?"

"I volunteered," he replied dryly, unfazed. Then he said, with a gentleness that had only been in his voice before when he talked to Marie. "'Ro, you have to talk to me. You're gonna explode."

She turned to him, her eyes whitening with fog. "Am I?" she asked, a queer smile on her face, and the window shattered as a huge bolt of lightning shot through it to strike him in the center of his chest.

One minute later Logan coughed hoarsely, a few delicate threads of smoke rising off his chest. The scorched remnants of his shirt fell to the floor as he heaved himself to his feet.

Storm smiled darkly in satisfaction as he faced her, her white silk nightgown fluttering around her thighs in the gale. "Are we gonna find out how much electricity your healing factor can handle, Logan?" The wind started spiraling up from her feet in a column around her, lifting her off the ground.

His knuckles itched, but he kept his claws in. He grinned lopsidedly at her. "Just try and hit me, darlin'," he dared.

Wolverine smelled it just before she struck, and dove to the right. The bolt hit the wall harmlessly, and left a large scorch mark on the paint. He sprang up lightly with an animal's leap, and snatched Storm out of the air.

The air was knocked out of her as Logan landed on top of her. "Get offa me! Let me go!" He looked down impassively at her as she struggled, knowing that he had her wrists pinned well and her held helpless under his weight.

In that moment, Logan realized that he would have to venture into uncharted waters. Taking a quick breath and a wild stab in the dark, he spoke. "You don't have to be perfect, 'Ro."

Her face, beautiful in its defiant savagery only a second before, crumpled; and all of the fight went out of her as her body went limp.

Logan cursed, holding her tight, as she submitted. Then he realized, with dry humor, that he was back to square one. "Talk to me, Sparky," he urged again, but this time it was an order.

Maybe if she could just be persuaded to _admit _her burdens, it would help. Then again, maybe the cycle would start all over again; and this time his pants would be gone. _That_ he was not so keen on. _Wish Chuck was here… _he thought ruefully.

He looked down, surprised, as Ororo unknowingly echoed his sentiment. "I w- wish the Professor was here," she whispered.

Logan ran his hand through her silver hair soothingly, trying to ignore the tempest increasing exponentially outside. "Why?"

He could tell from the way her body (relatively) stilled that she was thinking about what the answer was. "He would fix everything," she said finally, so quietly he barely caught it.

Logan laughed.

Storm froze in his grip, stiff with indignance; but he had none of it. Lifting her chin, he asked with a small smile, "Ya gonna zot me again, 'Ro?"

Her eyes dropped first. "No."

"You sure, darlin'?" he asked, grinning. "'Cause if it'll make ya feel better, I'll let you."

Her hair stung her cheeks as the rising gale whipped the strands around. She didn't notice. She chuckled, half bitterly. "I'm sorry."

"Not yer fault, darlin'," he replied. Something large hit the outer wall of the mansion, and Logan was aware of a steadily growing sense of desperation. "Things've gone to hell lately. And the professor couldn't fix it all, even if he washere. 'Cause he's just a _man_, like everyone else. He ain't perfect, and neither are you. You've been doin' a darn good job, sparky."

A choked, watery laugh came from the woman below him. "I hate that n-name," she managed. It was her way of thanking him, he knew, and he accepted the thanks.

Logan was grinning slightly, but sobered as he looked out the window. Already the Mansion was creaking, and he could barely see three feet into the raging tempest.

"'Ro, you have to stop it," said Logan quietly.

She closed her eyes, and her chin trembled. "I can't," she whispered.

A garden ornament crashed into the room, and glass shards, propelled by the wind, flew everywhere. He whirled and slammed her against the wall, shielding her with his body.

His mouth opened in pain as the glass sunk into his flesh, but not a sound escaped; and he did not sag forward. "Storm," he said unevenly, gritting his teeth as the shards slid from his back, "listen to me." The broken glass pieces fell to the ground, his skin sealing after them, and he straightened.

Logan lifted her chin, looking straight into her beautiful black eyes as they swam with latent tears and overwhelming chaos. It was funny, but he never really said anything. He just looked at her with another indefinable expression on his face.

But suddenly, Ororo realized she _could_ define it. It was faith. He trusted- no, he knew- that she would be able to do it. And somehow, something deep inside Storm rose to meet his expectations. Her eyes clouded over.

A brick flew into the room, crashing only a few scarce inches to the left of Logan's head. He snarled in frustration, tucking her closer against him and forcing her head down. He did now know how long he stood there; but slowly, slowly, he became aware that the hurricane was fading.

Storm's heartbeat thudded steadily against his senses.

"Logan?" she asked, in an uncharacteristically small voice. She looked up at him uncertainly, and muttered, "I'm sorry."

And he knew she was not only talking about the storm. He smiled faintly, picking her up easily and carrying her over to her bed. "Nothin' for you to be sorry about, darlin'," he repeated as he sat down, drawing her gently onto his lap. Not unkindly, but firmly, he ordered, "Sleep."

A few minutes passed, filled only with the soft sound of the rain pattering down softly in the night. Ororo's breathing calmed and slowed, and her eyes drifted irresistibly shut. She shifted slightly, just before she drifted off, and murmured drowsily, "If you ever call me Sparky again, I'll fry you medium rare and serve you to Beast for dinner."

Logan grinned. There was his Storm again. _His _Storm…

He looked down at her as she slept peacefully against his chest, and bent his head to kiss her forehead.

Ororo stirred slightly as she felt his lips travel feather light over her skin, and smiled in her sleep..


	3. The Color Red

The Color Red

Summary: Every color means something. Red is love… and is blood. This is the final chapter of Scott's story.

Rating: K+ or low T

Genre(s): Angst/Romance (kinda)

Length: Oneshot

Note to devoted comic fans: I took many, many liberties with the comicverse version of Scott's past here, and a few with that scene in X3. Get out your rotten vegetables! :D

* * *

Red is passion. The color of love. Like that stupid little poem- if it can be classified as poetry- that everyone knows. "_Roses are red, violets are blue…" _

That, genius that he was, was the poem he read to Jean when they were sixteen. "_…you're wonderful, and I love you." _But through some miracle or benevolent deity, his idiocy was overlooked. Jean had slid her hand into his and smiled. Scott could never tell how he knew she'd smiled, since he couldn't see a thing back then; but he knew. He always knew.

-

Scott was fifteen, when he had awoken to the pleasant sounds of morning. It was one of those mornings where you had slept dreamlessly, all through the night, and woken up slowly- feeling totally relaxed and refreshed. Feeling like you have the entire day to accomplish whatever you set your mind to.

He remembered the soft breeze that had scurried across his cheek, making the strands of hair around his temple tickle his skin, rousing him further. He'd yawned, rubbing his eyes, as they were itching insistently. Then he'd opened them- and the world came tumbling down on top of him.

Literally.

-

Red… red was the color of salvation. The color of sight.

-

The Professor had given him his ticket out of darkness when he was sixteen and a half. It was the happiest day of his life. He could see for the first time in over a year, and what he saw was Jean's face- even more beautiful than he'd imagined- beaming at him.

-

Red is your car. The color of the car you absolutely love, and the car you feel immensely cool in just because it's sweet, it's red, and _dude, _it's yours!

He remembered his first car like that. It was a 1986 Camaro, salvaged from a junkyard, which he'd spent the better part of five years restoring and tweaking. Man, he'd loved that car. The first time he took that baby out, really out, was on his first official date with Jean. He remembered booking down the highway, (paying far less attention to the road than was probably advisable) feeling the wind tousle his hair, the engine of his car roaring underneath him, and Jean sitting in the seat next to him with her long hair flying every which way in a crimson halo as she looked back at him, smiling.

-

But red was prison. His prison. He had to ask Hank to help him pick out a bouquet of roses for Jean, which hurt his pride more than he'd ever admit; and even later after a year of training himself to recognize which tint of red was blue or purple or yellow he still was unsure of himself and sensitive of the subject. When he proposed to Jean he was more nervous about having the right color stone in the ring than what her answer would be. He'd refused to allow himself to rely on anyone in helping pick that engagement ring out; and for days before he actually popped the question he agonized over whether it really was a pristinely white diamond, or if it was really yellow.

-

When Jean died, a part of him died. A very, very large part that left only enough for him to blame himself for not stopping her, and just enough to cling to the hope that somehow she hadn't died. That it'd all been a dream.

And then she called him.

It was like offering a lifeline to a drowning man. What could he do but seize it? Despite the terror that the line would be offered only to be cut- and leave him worse off than before- he had to take it.

-

"Open your eyes," she whispered. "I can control it now."

Scott shook his head vehemently. He felt his glasses sliding off, and clenched his eyes tightly shut. By some miracle of God, he had her back. He would not lose her again.

"Open them," she repeated softly, insistently. There was a pull on the edge of his consciousness, but he did not recognize it. Not then.

He opened his eyes, blinking slowly once in final resistance.

Then, gradually, the red faded from his vision.

_See? _she whispered, her voice a sultry echo in his mind. _I have the power now. _He saw her luminous black eyes contrasting with the pale peach velvet of her skin, and her deep auburn hair lifting in the breeze; the sun shining through the curly mass and turning it scarlet.

Something indescribable within Scott gave way. There were no words to describe what he felt. He exhaled, or laughed, or choked… who knew? It didn't matter. All that mattered was that she was alive, and that she had given him the greatest gift he ever received in his life.

And then, he looked into those pitch black eyes of hers… he never thought they would be that dark, he realized idly. And he saw Jean looking at him with hunger in her eyes, a hunger he could feel suddenly pulsing all around him. He was all too ready to oblige, kissing her fiercely with all of the emotion he felt coursing through his veins.

Suddenly something was wrong. He gasped for air with the abrupt, stabbing pain, and his eyes flew open.

_I have the power to do anything now, _she laughed; and her eyes flamed scarlet.

His shout of agony echoed through the lake as the world turned dark.

Red…

Red is the color of betrayal.

* * *

Reviews? Or not. It's just nice to hear your thoughts and/or suggestions.


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